Where Were You When The Lights Went Out?
by studentnumber24601
Summary: Last August, New York City faced the biggest blackout in its history. But luckily, our boys can always find things to do in the dark... [FINISHED. Features BlinkMush, SpecsDutchy, JackDavid and SpotRace.]
1. one: perfectly normal

[Disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

**__**

Where Were You When The Lights Went Out?

The first day of school, and homework already. It was an essay, which most of the students loathed, and a stupid essay at that. The sort of thing that teachers would use to place students in the correct English class; basic, dull, but not too hard.

Not unless you didn't want to tell people the truth, anyway.

Kid Ballatt–he hated his name, but knew people whose names were even worse–almost physically winced away from the paper. It was not a subject he wanted to talk about. It was one he remembered fondly, sure, but not one he wanted to tell his English teacher about.

He tapped his pen against his desk, thinking of how to creatively fix the truth Especially considering his teachers would _know_ it was a lie; he'd been with one of his classmates, who would also probably be lying, and he doubted their stories would match. He wondered what Mush was writing, and reread the essay subject.

It taunted him from the paper: _Where were you when the lights went out on August 14?_

He reflected on it for a long time before he began to write.

***

I remember mostly how hot it was out. Out, in, and everywhere else. I was at Mush's, since he's my best friend and all, and I remember his sister's stupid fuzzy cat kept trying to sit on my lap. It was too hot for that, and I kept shoving it off, and I remember telling his sister that if it happened again, I would wring the damn thing's neck. I wasn't serious, obviously, but I was freaking hot.

Mush told me to chill. I told him I would love to chill, but it's hard to do that when it's almost a hundred degrees out and there's no A/C. He hit me with a pillow and told me to take off my shirt if I was that hot, it wasn't like he was wearing his. But then, his family didn't even blink when they saw him wandering around with no shirt. No one does.

They don't blink with surprise, but they kind of stare, but, well, have you _seen_ him with no shirt? Everyone stares. _I_ stare, and I've seen it almost every day this summer. Not that I, you know, _look_ or anything, because Mush wandering around shirtless is totally no big deal. Except that it kind of makes me feel dizzy sometimes. Is that weird? I mean, he's my best friend and all. I've never thought too much about it.

Well. Okay. That's not, strictly speaking, true. I try not to think about it, but sometimes it's hard. Because when things with my dad get bad–and they do that a lot–he's always there. Either I stay at his house for a day or two (I guess his family doesn't even notice that I'm not related to them anymore, or at least, Mush keeps telling me that) or he'll come spend the night at mine because Dad usually doesn't freak out as much when other people are around. Mush was the first person I ever really told about what goes on when Dad is in a bad mood, and he's just been the best friend I ever could have wanted.

So it's probably, you know, _normal_ for me to sometimes think about him, right? I mean, I spend a lot of time with him, I know him better than I know anyone else does, he knows _me_ better than anyone else does, and I totally trust him. So it's _normal_ to think about him like that sometimes. Right?

Well, anyway. It was hot out–really fucking hot. And I was cranky, and Mush told me to lose my shirt if it would stop me from whining, so I did. And I felt kinda self conscious for a minute; I mean, his older sister was home from college for the summer, and she was in the room, and she's pretty hot.

She looks a lot like him.

But she didn't seem to care, and it was a _tiny_ bit cooler that way, so whatever. We were flipping channels, bored out of our skulls, and Faith–his older sister–said she was going out for awhile. His parents were out with the younger sibs (he's the second oldest of five) and that left the two of us home alone. And bored.

We'd already seen everything on the _good_ channels (we watched a lot of TV this summer, not much else to do but that and work, and who wants to go to work?) and the rest was, like, Home Decorating Reality TV and How To Fix A Fashion Disaster and shit like that, which I could care less about, but Mush likes to mock, so we ended up watching it anyway. And there was this one decorator who was _so_ flaming, it was ridiculous.

"You think he's gay?" Mush asked.

"Dude, _blind_ people can see him flaming."

"Ya know," Mush said, then paused, and finally finished, "not all gay guys are flamers."

"Well, duh." 

And I think Mush would have said something else, but the lights went really dim, kind of brown. We waited for them to come back for a second, which they did, then waved out again. "Okay, what the hell?" Mush demanded.

"I have no idea."

"It's some kinda brownout," he finally decided. "Let's turn off everything we're not using, okay?"

Which we did. Lights in other rooms off, mostly. We went back to the decorating show, and I wondered why Mush had made that comment about gay men, and just as I had just about worked up the bravery to ask–it's a weird subject, man–the TV went off. So did the lights, the clock, and the white noise of the refrigerator in the kitchen. 

"Okay, freaky."

Mush got up and went to one of the windows, and I followed. He pushed it open and stepped onto the fire escape, and we stared outside for a second: Manhattan was dark, still, and dead. For just a moment, it was totally silent. But then the people in their cars came back to life and horns started blaring like crazy, and we realized that there were no lights but hey, it was the middle of the afternoon, so it wasn't really _dark,_ and this _is_ the city that never sleeps. But still, those few moments were really awe inspiring.

We went back inside, and Mush pointed out that now no one in the whole city had an A/C now, which amused me probably far too much. We sat back down on the couch and tried to think of something to do. No TV, no radio, no computer, no _lights_ even. 

In other words, it was boring as all get out. We had to fall back on our conversation skills. I mean, two modern guys, sitting around, _talking._ Without even kicking back and drinking a few beers–which Mush hates doing at home, because he's convinced his parents will walk in and get him trouble for it, and I finally promised him I wouldn't do any more, because my dad's an alcoholic and heredity and all Yeah, it sucks, but he's right. I hate it when he's right, by the way, but he usually is.

"So," I finally said. "What you said earlier–about gay guys not all being flamers–uh, why'd you bring it up?" I was just curious was all.

"Well, uh, Blink, it's just that I've seen you watching me with no shirt on is all."

Oh, I figured, so he thinks I'm gay. You'd think he'd know me better. I started to answer, but he kept talking.

"And it doesn't really bother me much. I mean, I probably wouldn't take off my shirt so often if you didn't look like you appreciated it. And hey, I appreciate being appreciated. If you know what I mean."

I closed my mouth, no longer sure _what_ to say, because I was pretty sure he'd just hit on me. But he was suddenly looking really nervous. 

"I'll, uh, put it on if that would make you more comfortable," he said after a pretty awkward silence. "And–look, I'm sorry I brought it up; I just had to get it off my chest is all. I mean, I–I'm not gay. Bi. Maybe. Confused mostly. But you, uh, well, it's normal to sometimes think about a guy when you spend all your time with him, right? I mean, it's nothing. Don't worry about it."

One thing about Mush is he sometimes tends to babble when he's panicked. I grinned at him. "It's definitely normal," I told him. See? Mush and me, we think alike. I had been thinking just that earlier that day. 

"Oh. Okay, then. Thank God."

An then we just sat there for a minute, and finally I confessed, "I Maybe kinda thought about you, once or twice, too. I mean, you _do_ walk around without a shirt on a lot. A guy can't help but notice."

"Really?" He sounded pretty cheerful about that. "So you, uh, noticed?"

"Yep."

He grinned. He's got a _great_ grin. "So it's perfectly normal to think about your best friend like that," he said.

"Yep," I agreed again.

"So, then, would it be perfectly normal to You know Experiment?" 

"Well," I said, and considered some of the stuff they make me talk about in therapy, even when I don't want to and I have no reason to. You know, stuff like my shrink telling me that it's perfectly normal for teenage boys to not understand what they're feeling and then some psychobabble about manifesting it as anger or blaming my mother for leaving or my father for drinking or whatever, but basically what it comes down to is that, says the shrink, it's fine for someone to want to experiment, most people do it, and I shouldn't feel bad if I start to think about things like that.

I don't think he was talking about suddenly being turned on by the thought of my best friend with no shirt on, but hey, he's got a Ph.D., so I'll assume he knows what he's talking about. And if it's normal for a guy to experiment, well "Sounds normal to me," I said aloud.

And that was when Mush leaned over and kissed me. Which startled me, and he claims I made a face, which caused him to start laughing. I think he was just nervous, personally. So me being me, I punched him in the shoulder, and he was laughing to hard to hit me back, and I responded by tackling him. I mean, we were on the couch and all, so it worked out pretty well. But that lead to me lying on top of him, our limbs kinda intertwined, and he stopped laughing real fast when I kissed _him._ And then he kissed me back.

We may have started groping then, or maybe we just kissed for awhile longer, I don't really remember. Time sort of lost all meaning. New York City had no power, so his family would be totally lost in the traffic gridlock, and there was nothing to do, and it's perfectly normal to experiment with your best friend.

I had always thought that life without electricity would be boring, but Mush and I kept ourselves entertained for _hours._ By the time his parents finally got home, we'd worn each other out; we were sort of cuddled together on their couch, dozing, and we'd had the foresight to get mostly dressed. The shirts were still off, of course, since it _was_ hot out. 

And I could swear that I heard Mrs. Meyers say something about, "It's about time, you two," but I wasn't really awake at that point. I was lost in some sort of happy afterglow, with one of Mush's arms around me, and didn't want to wake up and think about it. It's perfectly normal to think about your best friend like that, and it's perfectly normal to think that in his arms is the best, safest, happiest place in the world. I know that it's where I belong, anyway.

I guess I learned a lot when the lights went off in August–but it's not like I can write that sort of thing down.

***

Blink shot a helpless look across the room at Mush, who shrugged, and began to write. Hesitantly, Blink scrawled in his normal, terrible handwriting, _When the lights went off on August 14, I was at my best friend's house._

He hesitated and glanced around the room. Mush was still writing, and he'd have given anything to see _what_ Mush was writing. He couldn't; the only paper he could easily see from where he sat was Dutchy's, sitting next to him. He watched Dutchy pick up his pencil, pause, then break into a grin and began to write.

_I spent the blackout in an elevator,_ Dutchy wrote.

_Lucky guy,_ Blink mused. _At least he has a story he can tell._ Or so Blink assumed, until he saw the next two words.

_I spent the blackout in an elevator with Specs._

And Blink knew Dutchy and Specs well enough to know exactly what that meant.

*

AN: I am far too easily amused. Next time will be Dutchy/Specs, naturally. See, for me, the lights went out and my first thought was newsies snogging in the dark Actually, my first thought was that all the popsicles would melt since the freezer was off, but after that came pretty snogging newsboys. I'm kind of sad.

-B


	2. two: three small words

[Disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

**__**

Where Were You When The Lights Went Out?

I spent the blackout in an elevator with Specs, Dutchy wrote, and glanced to towards the front of the room, where Specs was writing. He assumed it was a very tame, mostly fake version of the truth, something like what he was planning to write himself, but was dead wrong. Mostly.

Specs smirked a little to himself and cheerfully wrote, _I spent the blackout trapped in an elevator, screwing my boyfriend like crazy._ That would certainly convince Dutchy he wasn't quite as much of a goody two shoes as Dutchy kept claiming he was. Of course, that would also show his teacher the same thing, and as annoying as Dutchy's comments were, being loved by teachers gave him a whole slew of easy A's, and lots of resources for recommendations on college applications. He had to keep things like that in mind.

Still, though, he wondered what people would think to read that one sentence But no. He scratched it out with thick black marks, drew squiggles over them, and filled in the gaps until nothing but a black ink smear remained, and debated how to handle the question tactfully.

It _had_ been a fun night, though.

***

Dutchy and I had just gotten out of the movie. We'd planned to see _Pirates of the Caribbean_ with Jack and David, even though I'd already seen it twice and Dutchy'd seen it once, but Jack and David love it. I think they've seen it a dozen times between the two of them. David definitely has a thing for Orlando Bloom, and Jack's been talking about Johnny Depp nonstop since it came out, so I guess it works out.

But Dutchy didn't want to see it again; said something about it being too girly or something. He wanted to see _Freddy Vs. Jason_. I most emphatically did _not._

"Wimp," he said accusatorily.

"I am not a wimp, just because I don't like stupid, predicable horror movies. I mean, by the time you hit the eighth sequel, what's left to do, huh?"

"Whatever. Wimp."

"I am _not_ a wimp!"

Which is more or less how Dutchy's and my relationship works. Unlike Jack and David, who were about to celebrate their second anniversary, we're not adorably disgustingly saccharine all the time, we're more Like the Odd Couple, or Perfect Strangers or something. If Larry and Balkie–or whatever his name was–had lots of really good sex all the time. I mean, consider: I'm a neat, organized student council member; Dutchy is a walking slacker mess. I was terrified of coming out, he's been openly bi since about sixth grade. He's, shall we say, experienced Me, not so much.

But we had a few mutual friends, and after a few weeks of eating lunch at the same table started hanging out a little after school, and there was this weird tension between us as I was always yelling at him to do his damn homework before he failed out, and I swear he was getting straight D's just to infuriate me, and then came the end of the school year and we were assigned to do a giant English project together and It's a cute story, really, but basically one thing lead to another and by the end of finals week, Dutchy and I were a couple.

He still makes me crazy, but I'm sure the fact that I clean up his room when he's not looking does the same to him, so we're even. Anyway.

"Don't be such a girl, Specs."

"What? Okay, aside from that comment being totally sexist, I am _not_ acting like a girl."

"Oh, get over it. You want to see a movie with me, or have a threesome with Jack and David, huh?"

"Why are you being such a jerk, Dutch?" I demanded.

"Why are you being such a _wimp?"_

"I'm not _being_ a wimp!"

"Then see the movie with me."

"But Jack and David are expecting us"

"So? They're just going to sit in the back and make out, then argue about whether Orli or Johnny is hotter, and then make out some more. They wouldn't even know we're there. They won't notice that we're missing."

"But"

"Well, _I'm_ seeing my movie. You can do whatever you want." And then he stalked off to get in line, and I glared after him. He'd been being a total bitch for the past week or so; I didn't know what was wrong, but _something_ definitely was. I mean, we've never been all shmoopy-woopy the way David and Jack are, but he'd never been such a jerk so consistently to me before. 

So I waited for David and Jack to show up, told them what was going on, apologized profusely, and ducked away to go find Dutchy. David did mutter something about how if he was treating me badly I shouldn't put up with it, and I certainly wasn't in the mood to apologize to Dutchy, but I could sit through some idiot movie if it would make him behave like a human being for a few minutes.

I caught up with him at the concessions stand, and was pleased when he bought me an iced mocha without stopping to ask what I wanted, because he already knew, and I went to kiss him to thank him, and he shied away, picked up his popcorn and soda, and walked away. So I followed him into the theater.

"I hope you're happy," I muttered.

"Thrilled."

"What's your problem? Seriously, you've been in a bad mood for a week."

"Shut up. Previews."

"It's _just_ commercials, and since I don't even want to see the movie–"

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I like spending time with you, you jackass, when you're not being a brat!"

"Brat?" he laughed. "God, you can't even throw a drama queen fit right."

"Jesus, sorry for not causing a scene. I'll try harder next time."

"Previews," he said again, ignoring me.

"We're talking later," I informed him, annoyed.

"Whatever."

"We are talking at _great length."_

"Shut up and drink your pretentious coffee thing, would you?"

"You think I'm _pretentious?"_

"You are. Previews. Be quiet."

"Dutchy–"

"Specs, I'm serious, if you don't shut up you'll get yourself lynched."

"Dutchy–"

"You did try to kiss me in the lobby; gay guys do get beat up occasionally. Especially ones who talk through movies."

"Ught." I hate him when he's like this, and I was definitely tempted to "accidentally" drop my iced mocha on his lap, but instead I sulked in silence. Yes, I can admit I was sulking; I think I deserved a good sulk, but whatever. I suffered in silence, sat through the stupid movie, and made a point of loudly predicting everything that happened in advance, hoping Dutchy was annoyed by it as the people around us, who kept asking me loudly to shut up.

Asking is a bit of an understatement, but whatever.

So we finished the movie, and despite what Dutchy will tell claim if he gets half a chance to talk about it, I wasn't scared, I didn't scream, and I certainly didn't clutch his arm like a girl. "Like a girl." I _hate_ that phrase, so much. _So_ much. 

Well, anyway, we grabbed the subway back to Dutchy's apartment, and barely spoke the whole time. My coffee had worn off by this point, Dutchy was still being a jerk, and furthermore, he wanted to take the elevator up. Now, I'm not scared of heights; not in the least. However, I don't like elevators. The difference is subtle, but important. If I'm standing on top of a sky scraper looking down, I'm fine, because I'm in control of my feet, and don't have to step off and fall to my death. But with elevators, they go up and down, and there's no way to be sure they're never going to crash and burn and kill everyone inside. 

Sure, it's forty flights, but I'd still just as soon walk. There's a reason I have such shapely calves. But Dutchy was still being bitchy, and I think wanted to get back at me for being so loud in the movie, so he walked into the elevator, said if I was still acting like a girl he'd meet me in his apartment in half an hour when I had hiked the stairs, and hit the door shut button. And that was the last straw; I hate elevators, but I didn't deserve any of his asshole comments, so I stomped in after him before the door shut and glared.

"Maybe you're not such a wuss," he mused as we started up.

"Yeah. Maybe not. But you're a real asshole sometimes, Dutch. What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem."

"Then stop being a jerk. It's not cute, it's not funny, it's just obnoxious and I really don't want to deal with it."

"That's up to you. I am who I am."

"You've never been like this before. Look, if you're pissed at me, just tell me why." I glanced up at the lights, we were hitting floor eighteen. 

"I'm not pissed at you, okay? I just need some space. To think about things."

I stared at him. "What?" I demanded finally, as we passed floor twenty five. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No, I just–"

And the elevator stopped, halfway between floors twenty-nine and thirty. The lights went out too, and sure, I'll admit that I freaked out. "What the fuck?" I demanded.

Dutchy shrugged, and being slightly more level headed than I am when I'm panicked, he picked up the emergency phone, then frowned and set it back down. "Nothing," he said. "Dead."

"Oh my god. We're going to die. Any second now we're going to crash to the sub-basement and be be street pizza."

"We won't be in the street," Dutchy said.

"Dutchy!"

"We'll be fine," he said.

"Dutchy"

"I mean it. It's not like the cable holding this thing is made of thread, it's heavy stuff, _and_ there's other reinforcement things. Totally safe."

"If it's totally safe, then why did it _stop?"_

"I don't know. I guess it lost power or something."

"Lost Power?" I managed to say. I think I started to hyperventilate at that point; I'm not really sure. "Ohmygodwe'regoingto_die"_

"Just chill, okay?" Dutchy snapped. "We'll be fine. Someone will notice the elevator isn't working, they'll get us out."

"They'll notice when it crashes to the ground in a ball of firey _wreckage"_

"Stop that!" 

So I fell silent, and sunk down the wall of our tiny metal prison cell of death, buried my head between my knees and concentrated on breathing in and out. In and out. Like that. I didn't even notice for a minute after Dutchy sat down, then realized and was kind of disappointed he didn't sit next to me. It was pretty dark in there, but my eyes got used it quickly, and he looked almost as miserable as I felt.

"So we should talk," I said after a minute, when it became pretty clear that we weren't going to die. At least not within the next few moments, and I figured better to die with things with Dutchy cleared up than wondering if he was about to dump me. How much would it suck to be eternally in fear of being broken up with? 

"Whatever."

"Seriously, Dutchy. You haven't been very nice to me the last few days, and it's pissing me off."

"Sorry," he muttered sullenly. 

"Don't be sorry, just tell me what's up. I'm your boyfriend, for god's sake, if something is wrong–"

"I already said," he snapped. "I just need to think about things for awhile."

"Why?" I demanded. "Why now?"

"Look, I'm not breaking up with you–"

"Then why are you–"

"But I'm really confused about some stuff and I just need to get it sorted out and it's _really_ hard to do it when it's all about you–me and you–and you're always there and I can't get away from you for long enough to think, okay?"

"Why Why do you want to get away from me?" I asked quietly.

He didn't say anything for a long minute.

"Dutchy?" I asked nervously.

"Specs, do you think we're really about to die in this elevator?" he asked.

"Yes." I didn't really, the fact that we hadn't gone anywhere was making me a little more confident, but I definitely did not like the thought of being stuck there indefinitely.

"Ok. Then I should probably–I've got to say something, and it sounds stupid, and you don't have to say it back or anything, but I've just got to tell you in case we do fall to a firey, gruesome death. Just Just don't freak out, okay?"

"Okay." I was a bit too consumed by the thought of the firey, gruesome death to have any guesses what he was about to say.

"It's just I think I love you, Specs. And–and we haven't been together all that long, and I figure you don't love me back, so I didn't want to say it until I thought you'd say it back, but I couldn't think of anything else and I guess it was making me kinda Unpleasant. Wanting to say it but not knowing if I should."

Oh.

Well, whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't _that._

Wow.

"Dutchy" I said finally, a little stunned.

"Yeah."

"I don't know what to say." Which was true. "I mean, I I've never thought about it."

"It's okay," he said. "I mean, I figured I figured you hadn't. It's okay."

He didn't sound like it was okay, and I really had no idea what to say, or what to think. I mean, Dutchy? In love? In love with _me?_ He didn't seem like the falling-in-love type; I'm definitely the romantic one in this relationship. And we hadn't even been together for a full three months. And Love? I mean, that's a big thing. Love. Wow. Dutchy _loved_ me.

"I" I said.

"Don't say it unless you mean it, Specs."

I fell silent. He was right, and I hadn't thought about it enough to–I mean, I hadn't even _considered_ it. Dutchy. Love. Wow. No wonder he's been so bitchy lately, if he's been trying to figure that out, or trying to figure out how to say it.

"I I just hadn't I mean, I really like you, Dutch. Like, _really_ like you. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do. Specs, you don't have to force yourself to say it now. I mean, I wish you could but Hey, it doesn't look like we're going anywhere for awhile in here. And I'm not going anywhere out _there_, either. I can wait for you to be ready."

And I _know_ at that point I was grinning a lot, because he's just the sweetest boy ever, when he's not being a brat. And that wasn't bratty. That was just So You know, there are no words. He's so amazing sometimes, even if he can't keep his room neat. He's just amazing.

And if I couldn't say the words he wanted to hear yet, I could still show him how much I cared about him. So I crawled the few feet across the elevator and put my arms around him, put my lips to his, and kissed him. A lot. 

He kissed back, of course, and his hand went to the bottom of my T-shirt, found its way inside, and he started doing these things to my chest that I can't really describe, and the next thing I knew I had my shirt off, and his mouth was leaving kisses along my shoulder, and my own hands were definitely not sitting still. I know I dug one into his back as he hit this sensitive spot on my collar bone (I know because he claims my fingernails left welts, but he exaggerates, as always) and my other hand went to another area entirely. You know, it's hard to undo a belt one handed while you're being distracted? But it is possible. Eventually.

And then we got to the point where I'm just not comfortable thinking about it in school, but lets just say Well, some people have no problem with casual sex, and it means nothing. For me and Dutchy, it definitely means something. It's the closest two people can be physically, and it was an expression of how close we are, emotionally.

It's been a few weeks since then, and yes, I love him and I've told him so.

But anyway. Back to the fourteenth. Obviously, Dutchy and I didn't fall to our deaths; probably after we'd been in the elevator for an hour and a half, there was some banging on the top, and a large panel flipped open and a flashlight beam came down and caught the two of us. We were done with what we'd been doing, mostly, but not exactly decent. I mean, Dutchy had his socks on, but really Yeah.

I guess he knows whoever it was who was sent to rescue us, because the guy with the flashlight burst out laughing. I was mortified, and Dutchy will deny it, but so was he. "Robert Polaski," our rescuer said between laugher, after shutting off his flashlight to give us a little bit of privacy to get dressed in, "does your _mother_ know about this hobby of yours?"

"Sleeping with boys?" Dutchy asked lazily, as though he wasn't embarrassed at all. "Yeah, I told her awhile ago."

"I meant in public."

"We were bored."

"Right. Um, you two give a yell when you're dressed, okay? I'll be back in a minute." And he left us to our devices.

It took a lot of bribery mixed with several death threats to get Dutchy to swear to never, ever breath a word of it to anyone. I suspect his mother found out, but like he said, she already knew of his habit of sleeping with boys, and she says I'm a good influence, so I guess she doesn't mind.

She also said she's never getting in that elevator again, though.

Personally, I'm not getting in _any_ elevator again. Unless it's with Dutchy, and there's a guaranteed blackout, of course.

***

_Well,_ Specs reasoned, _I really can't write _that, _now can I? I mean I guess I could write part of it. It is really romantic, aside from the "being caught naked" part. And the whole "sex in public" part._

But the "I love you" part is just wonderful.

He happily put his pen back to the paper and began to write. _For me, the blackout was like a fairy tale. It had it's scary moments when I thought I was going to die, when I thought I was going to lose everything, but the ending was happy enough to make the journey worth it. I spent the first few hours of the blackout stuck in an elevator between floors_

He glanced around the room, threw a look back at Dutchy, who winked, saw Jack staring out a window, and cast a look at David, who sat next to him in the front row. David had already filled up almost half a page; while Specs had been daydreaming, he'd been working. Figured.

Specs realized that if he and Dutchy had caught a slightly earlier showing of a shorter movie and weren't home yet, then probably Jack and David were still in the movies when the lights went out. _Jack. David. In a dark theater that got even darker I'm not sure _their_ story is appropriate, either._

*

I had too much fun writing that. :D Arg, I don't handle groping (etc) too well. Alas. But I still think Specs/Dutchy is cute. Thanks for all the reviews and encouragement, it makes things flow much faster. Now if only I can figure out what to do with Jack and David

Thanks to Pyromaniacle Llama, Rumor, Fishface, Seraph, Lady Elwen, Artemis-chan, Anne, Gothic Author, Carmen Maria, Funkiechick, Cards, Thistle, hilaRy, and Hotshot. :)

And yes, there will be Spot/Race.


	3. three: happy anniversary

[Disclaimer: Disney's, not mine. Alas.]

**__**

Where Were You When The Lights Went Out?

Jack watched David write, and grinned to himself. He loved watching David write; David just got this look of intense concentration on his face, and sort of mouthed along with whatever he was writing, then would frown and cross something out and make changes, and the look on his face when he finally got the phrase _just_ the way he wanted it David was a great writer. Jack was not known for his ability to splice together coherent sentences, but he found the fact that David could to be impossibly sexy.

There were a lot of things about David that he found impossibly sexy, which was weird, because apparently no one else did. Apparently, to almost everyone else, David was just this sort of geeky kid who spent too much time in the school's Literary Magazine office, and who talked too much in class, because he always knew everything.

The fact that David knew everything was also kind of hot. 

Jack tore his gaze away from David and glanced around the room at his friends. Mush was smiling to himself and tapping his pencil against the desk, thinking; Blink was writing but his face was a shade of red usually reserved for tomatoes and fire engines; Dutch was staring up at the ceiling, and Specs was smiling softly to himself as he wrote. He almost laughed; he knew full well what had happened between Specs and Dutchy during the blackout, because (despite having promised Specs he'd keep his mouth shut) Dutchy had shared all the details. That just left Racetrack, who was writing furiously and stabbing his pencil at the paper for every piece of punctuation. Jack wondered what the hell had _him_ so intense, before turning back to his own paper.

He'd had a good day that day.

***

David Jacobs and I have been together for a little over two years, which is an awfully long time for a high school relationship. But David and I just _work_ together. He was what I guess you'd call an early bloomer, skipped up a year into our grade, and we got together right before ninth grade started. Which means he was only fourteen. But it's not like I was _so_ old or anything, really just a year older, so it wasn't creepy. Well. I think his parents might have found it a bit creepy, but they're incredibly used to us by now.

Which is a good thing, because we're still going strong together. Our second anniversary was last summer, by weird coincidence, on August fourteenth–the day the blackout struck New York.

Our anniversary plans consisted of meeting Specs and Dutchy for a movie in the afternoon and then a nice romantic dinner (which I have been saving up for for six months, I swear) for just the two of us, and then we were going to head back to my place. Because my dad is out of town like usual, and since David's place is _never_ empty Well. We had after dinner plans too, even if we hadn't voiced them out loud.

It didn't end up happening quite like that, of course.

We got to the theater as per plan, and ran into a Dutchyless Specs, who was in a pretty lousy mood. He walked off and left me and Dave on our own which really, now that I think about it, neither of us minded at all. So we sauntered off to our theater hand in hand, in a pretty good mood.

"I knew Specs and Dutchy wouldn't last," David commented as we found seats near the back. "Which is a shame because they're _so_ good for each other, but too different."

I nodded; he was right. Well, he'd eat those words later because they're still together, but at the time I thought he was right. We'd both noticed how much they'd been fighting And it really sucked, because Specs is good friends with David (student council members together) and Dutchy and I have been good friends forever. (He was my first crush, way back in seventh grade.) And we really liked that we could hang out with them together, since we don't know a lot of other gay couples, but Well. Now there's Mush and Blink too, who have this bizarre quasi-relationship where I think _they_ think they're just best friends with benefits but really, it's like they're married. But they refuse to go on _dates_, so really it's just us double dating with Specs and Dutchy a lot of the time.

I think I'm a little off the subject.

So we were talking and goofing around, and then the movie started and we managed to quiet down to watch. We didn't make it through the whole movie, obviously, since it was the day of the blackout. Right as we were hitting the climax, the picture went out. And the exit signs went out too, and so did the dim lights that lined the aisles. And people, being stupid, lost their minds and screamed. I turned to look at David, though I couldn't really see him in the pitch black, and he reached for his keychain. Dave loves silly gadgets and things, so his keychain has a built in little flashlight (and a bottle opener) which he flicked on and then grabbed my wrist. "C'mon," he said. "Let's find out what's wrong."

Smart guy, always thinking. I'd never even have remembered he _had_ a flashlight, and I'd probably have stayed put and panicked with the stupid people if he hadn't been there. So he lead the way out into the hallway and knocked on the door of the projection booth, which was opened by someone who looked incredibly pissed off. "Uh, we were just–"

"The goddamn power's out!" he yelled at David. "Ain't my goddamn fault!"

David nodded quickly and the guy slammed the door shut. And he was right; nothing in the theater had power. "It's probably just the theater," David reasoned. "Or the block or something."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I mean, this is Manhattan. It's not like the whole thing is gonna lose power."

"Exactly," he said confidently, and we followed his flashlight out of the darkened theater (with a crowd behind us, ready to follow anyone with a light.) Of course, as soon as we opened the doors and stepped into the afternoon light, we were blinded for a second, then looked around.

Nothing had power. Anywhere. Which would have been totally amazing and awe inspiring, but it was _still_ Manhattan and I swear, every car in the city was honking. I put my hands to my ears and David laughed at me, grabbed my arm and started to drag me down the block. "Now what?" I yelled over the mess, which was starting to quiet a little. (New York drivers realize that honking won't actually make traffic go faster? Nah, never. I think their arms just got tired.)

"I don't know," he answered. "You wanna see if we can still get dinner?"

"Yeah, sure." He slipped his hand into mine. Normally we'd have had to grab a bus to get to the restaurant where we had reservations, but given that we'd left the movie early, the hike should have gotten us there at the right time. And it _was_ a pretty cool walk; we kept passing little grocery stores that were giving away things for free. And while we didn't want any raw beef, we got a lot of ice cream out of the deal. Because it was all gonna melt anyway.

Basically nowhere was open. We kept running into panicked people and eventually into one guy who had a battery radio, was listening to some long range news channel, and he explained that he'd heard the whole eastern seaboard and part of Canada was knocked out but it wasn't a terrorist attack or anything. But it probably _would_ be at least three days before power was restored.

I threw a look at David. "Three days?" he repeated incredulously. "Three days without my computer"

"Geek," I said fondly and he rolled his eyes at me. (It's not _my_ fault he's a geek, and I love him for it. But he so is.)

Well, at least we weren't in any danger, really. And as we walked longer, we kept seeing really great things; people gathering on corners together and singing or impromptu jazz bands forming and stuff like that. You know, all the artsy stuff that was on the news for the next few days. And no one was looting or swearing or anything, and people had taken over directing traffic, so it was finally starting to clear up by the time we got to our goal.

It was closed.

Which wasn't surprising, but it did leave us with no plans for the evening. By that point, David was sucking on a strawberry popsicle and his lips and tongue were this great shade of electric red, and I kissed him (he tasted fruity–haha, I'm so clever) and then asked what we should do. We opted for a nice romantic stroll through the park, because that was also a shortcut back to his place. _His_ place, unfortunately, not mine; but mine wasn't in convenient walking distance. I rely on the bus and subway so much it's _sad._ So I sighed about our plans being ruined, but he just squeezed my hand.

"We don't need to _do_ anything, Jack," he murmured. "I just want to spend the evening with you. I don't care _what_ we're doing."

Which was awful sweet, really. And I gotta say, the walk through the park was also sweet. Well, and scary, because we were hitting dusk and there were no lights and we certainly didn't want to get mugged or lost, but thanks to David's trusty flashlight we had no real problems. Took a few wrong paths, but getting lost was fun, and we almost didn't want to leave the park. Because spending an evening in a dark apartment with his brother and sister and parents isn't exactly my idea of a nice, romantic anniversary 

But really, we didn't have that much of a choice. And sure enough, there was his whole family, apparently terrified because we'd been out and hadn't called or anything, and they didn't know where we were. David apologized profusely, and his parents _very_ grudgingly forgave us. And then they surprised the hell out of me.

We were lying on the floor of David's room with the window propped open and the door locked shut. David's got this really comfortable rug, and his bed is definitely not big enough to comfortably fit two people, so the floor thing isn't as weird as it sounds. We were holding hands, and his head was leaning on my shoulder, and the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling (he's got them up in actual conversations, the dork) were half-heartedly glowing. They hadn't gotten enough light to really shine much of it back.

There was a tentative knock on the door. 

"What?" David called, and someone tried the know, which, of course, didn't work. Since we'd locked it. I mean, we weren't gonna screw around with his little brother in the next room (especially since his stereo had no batteries, which meant we couldn't even crank the music up and yeah,) but we also did want some privacy. It was our anniversary, after all.

"Everything all right in there?" Esther called.

"_Yes,_ Mom, everything is _fine,"_ David answered, slightly exasperated. He always gets that tone when he's around his parents; it's the 'my parents mean well but are _irritating_' tone.

"We've got a surprise for you two, David. _If_ you don't mind unlocking the door and joining the rest of the world for a minute."

David looked over at me. I shrugged. So he pushed himself up onto his feet and unlocked the bedroom door; his mother nodded to me. I really like Dave's family, I guess I can see where he finds them annoying, but I think they're great. David gave me a hand up and we wandered back into the living room.

"So What's up?" I asked.

Sarah glanced up from the book she was reading. "Go up on the roof," she said.

"What?" David demanded.

Esther beamed, and Sarah smiled, Les was bouncing with excitement, and Mayer was also looking fairly pleased. I gave David a strange look, and he shrugged.

"Uh"

"Go!" Les squeaked, and Esther made a shooing motion. So David and I complied, and let ourselves be ushered into the hallway, with a flashlight pressed into my hands so we could see the stairs. It was another eight floors up to get on the roof, and it took me a few seconds to figure out why we'd been sent there, but then I saw it, and I grinned.

Someone had put together a picnic on the roof. There was a large blanket spread out over the floor, two plates, a basket of food, two glasses, a bottle of wine, and an unlit candle with a matchbook next to it. A card sat next to it.

David knelt on the blanket and picked up the card, while I sat on the other side and lit the candle. He grinned wordlessly and held the card out for me to read. It was simple and elegant; all it said was _Happy Anniversary_, and the rest of David's family had signed it.

And they'd set this up for us.

"I can't believe your folks got us wine," I said, as I tried to get the cork out.

"I can." He laughed. "They probably had it sitting around. It's just Manishevitz."

"But still," I argued, and the cork finally came loose with a satisfying _pop!_ noise. So I poured us wine while David explored the contents of the basket.

There wasn't really a lot of food, considering that anything that required an oven, stove, microwave or toaster was out. But there were a few peanut butter and fluff sandwiches (which Esther _knows_ I love, God bless her), some fruit, and carrot sticks. With brownies for desert, which David informed me had been cooked two days ago. (I was impressed they went two days without all being eaten, but then, Esther also cooks in bulk. An invading army could show up at their apartment and she'd have enough food to feed them _all.)_

David picked up his wine glass and I kind of expected him to make a toast, but got a little distracted, looking up at the sky. I followed his gaze. "What?" I finally asked, not able to figure out what he was staring at.

"Stars," he said.

And then I got it. Normally, we can't see the stars, there's too much light pollution. But there wasn't a single electric light anywhere within _miles._ Of course, there was still the smog, so it wasn't like we could see much, but still. The few stars that managed to twinkle through the pollution were worth looking up at. And the moon was gorgeous, brighter than I could ever remember seeing before.

David turned back towards me, and I picked up my glass, too.

"Happy anniversary, Jack," he said.

I smiled. "Happy anniversary, Davey." 

We clinked our glasses together, wrapped our arms around each other's at the elbow, and drank.

So maybe it wasn't a big dinner, or as fancy as the one I'd been saving up for. But it was a sweet gesture from his family, and it _did_ leave us alone together on the rooftop with wine and candlelight.

All things considered, there are worse ways to spend an evening.

***

Jack looked over at David, who was just finishing up. He was only halfway through the story, and wondered if David's version was similar. He figured it was, but probably better. David had a way with words that Jack just lacked.

David glanced over at him, and Jack caught his eye and smiled. David grinned back and blushed a tiny bit, which just made Jack smile more as he went back to writing. The essay didn't suck quite as badly as most essays did. At least this one brought back pleasant memories for him.

He glanced around the room again a moment later, and his gaze slipped past Racetrack, who was still scribbling angrily. He wondered why and couldn't remember where Race had been during the blackout; probably at his mother's house in Brooklyn, where he spent most of the summer. He hated spending time at his mother's house.

As he turned back to his own essay, Jack idly wondered what had happened.

*

Well, the whole National Novel Writing Month thing, um, isn't working out. Ah, well, I pulled it off the last two years, so I can let this one go. So I've been back to working on fics instead, and finally finished up this chapter. I like the end, but overall have a mixed opinion of it. Good enough to post; not my best writing. You know how it goes. 

(Oh, and Manishevitz is wine drunk in many Jewish households, because my Esther and Mayer are, well, very stereotypical Jewish parents.)

Does it say something about me that I write it so the protagonist of the story finds the geeky, smart kid who writes a lot to be attractive? It does? Ah, well. ;)

Thanks to: Gryffin Parker (I changed the summary so it's got a better explanation, thanks for the heads up), Uke-Twitch, Carmen Maria, Sinhe, Rumor, Omni, Shadowlands, HilaRy, Chicago, Hentai02, Falco, Lady Elwen, Stage, Pixiedust5, Shot Hunter, Artemis-chan, Seraph, Kellyanne, Thistle, Pyromaniacle Llama, Gothica, Funkie, Jen, and Matt, if he's reading. ;) You're all wonderful people who rock the world with your coolness.


	4. four: denial

_This chapter is completely and utterly dedicated to The Second Batgirl, who's a great writer and a great friend. Happy birthday, TSB, and many happy returns of the day. :)_

**_Note: The boys have dirty mouths. This chapter contains extreme language. Consider yourself warned._******

Racetrack had never liked school to begin with. And most especially did not like English class. Math he could do; he was good with numbers, and science he could fake because really, it was mostly stupid formulas and once he had the numbers, he was fine. But English sucked.

He glanced around the classroom and his mood got even worse. Because there were all of his friends, people he normally liked spending time with, but lately things had been a bit... Awkward. Blink and Mush were shooting each other nervous, happy looks across the room; they had been acting odd for the past couple of weeks. Inseparable, more so than usual... And Race could swear he'd seen them holding hands on their way into the building, before realizing there were other people around. Then there were Specs and Dutchy; Specs was bright red, blushing, and Dutchy was grinning and writing. Specs looked over at Dutchy and his blush got deeper, but he smiled warmly at his boyfriend. And Jack and David were both alternately writing and shooting each other loving, happy looks. David was practically batting his eyelashes every time he looked up.

Race made a face. All his friends were couples now, officially or not. And he was the only single, odd man out. Which sucked. He _hated_ couples, and now he had no one else to spend his time with.

He groaned and turned back to his essay. He hated essays. And he really, really, _really_ hated _this_ essay topic. When he'd first picked up his pencil, he'd almost broken it in half in frustration as he read the question. It figured; idiot teachers _would _have to go and ask him about a topic which he never, ever, _ever_ discussed. With anyone. Ever. Period.

Not even his best friends knew, because for all they'd exchanged stories about the blackout, he'd covered with a simple, "Ehh, Brooklyn." And that meant he didn't feel like talking about it.

Racetrack hated Brooklyn.

***

First, let us get one thing straight: I am. Straight. Ah ha, see, it's funny. But the truth is that I, Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins, am not attracted to boys. At all. Ever.

Really.

I am straight as an arrow, though when you think about it, that's kind of a stupid phrase. Arrows are long, and hard, and have a bit of a thing on the end that's supposed to get shoved into something else. And they get pulled in and out of quivers a lot. I'm just saying, maybe the phrase should be about a slightly less phallic object.

Can you tell I don't want to think about this? You can? Gee, I'm subtle.

All right, with that very important fact established, let us move on. The next most important fact is that I detest my step-brother and everything he stands for. He is, one might say, a macho, swaggering, wannabe body builder who got stuck with an exomorph frame. (See, I'm smarter than he is, too; I know what the hell that means. It means he's got a skinny body type, and no matter how obsessed he is with weight lifting, he will always be a shrimp. Which I find way too amusing.)

I don't like him, I don't like his father, and I'm not a fan of my mother, particularly, either. And as a result, I live with my dad; but during breaks, the custody agreement insists that I spend time with Mom and her new family, and I get to share a room with one Sean "Spot" Conlon, who I detest with a burning passion. He is, of course, the step-brother in question.

Mom and the assholes live in Brooklyn. I hate Brooklyn. Which is why I can get away with not telling my friends about this; they know how much I hate it, and that any time I say I was in Brooklyn and don't answer, the topic is firmly off limits. Because my family—or rather, Mom's family, which I really wish I had no part of—can get psycho.

But this wasn't the normal drunk Irish stereotype, the way it usually is. (Blink and I would bond about his dad and my step-dad, if I ever wanted to talk about it, which I don't. I live with my actual father. Brooklyn is a bad dream. Denial? La la la, no denial here! ...Shut up.)

This was me, grabbing the subway back to visit my _actual_ friends, and him, being forced to go visit his grandmother or something. I think he was actually going to skip out on that and go get piss drunk somewhere, but I don't actually give a damn. The upshot being, we were both in the subway when everything lost power. The lights went off, we stopped moving abruptly and the inertia threw everyone around for a second.

Now, look. I'm not a paranoid guy, but everyone in the subway car got a bit... freaked out. It was the last car and there were only five of us back that far, me and him included, and none of us knew what was going on. As a group, we all kind of gasped, and some lady began screaming about terrorists, but her husband got her to shut up. Some WASP-y woman tried her cell phone, giving off a blue glow which was the only light there was, and had no reception. Of course.

"Oh my _God,"_ she yelped. "Oh god, what if it _is_ terrorists? What if, what if there's been an attack and, and _oh my god..."_

The couple clung to each other. The other woman sat there and repeated, "Oh my _god_ oh my _god,"_ over and over.

I wanted to yell at her to shut up, but wouldn't have, because I was pretty freaked out too. And anyway, that would have been mean, and while I can maybe be a bit _blunt_ sometimes, I'm not a genuinely mean guy.

Spot, however, is.

"Shut the _fuck_ up," he snarled at her.

To which I, defender of random strangers' honor, replied, _"You_ shut the fuck up." Yeah, it was certainly because I didn't want to see him be mean to a random stranger who was clearly already freaked out enough, and not because I just hate him. Of course.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do," he snarled back.

"I'll tell you whatever the fuck I _want_ to tell you," I spat back at him.

For the record, yes, this is how all of our conversations sound, and no, I don't think we've ever managed to say a complete sentence to each other that didn't involve the F-word. 

He glared at me, which I couldn't really even see, and I glared back.

"What... What do you think happened?" the first woman asked her husband.

"I don't know," he answered seriously. "Let's go see if we can find out." He felt around in the dark for a minute, found the door up to the next car, and lead her out, I guess to ask around or something. 

"Oh my _god_ what if we all _die?"_ the hyperventilating lady asked no one in particular.

"We're not gonna die," I said, still irritated, though more with Spot than with her. "If it was some kinda bomb we'd be dead already."

Spot snorted. "Fucking _sunshine,_ aren't you?"

"Shut _up."_

_"You_ shut up."

"Screw you!"

"Screw _you!"_

And I think that was the witty repartee that convinced the hyperventilating woman to go seek shelter in another car, likely hoping that the people would swear at each other less. Ha, you'd think she'd know New Yorkers better than that. Though okay, I admit, Spot and I take the cursing at the top of our lungs thing to a bit of an extreme. But I can't help it, he brings out the worst in me.

Apparently, he brings out other things in me too. Tings I don't want to think about. But I'll tell it like it happened, because... I honestly don't know. I guess I'm going to have to think about it someday, anyway.

So Spot and I were still sitting in the back of the subway, alone in the car, in the dark, and kind of nervous. Because... Well, for all my talk about how if a bomb had gone off we'd be dead, we were stuck there, in the dark, with no explanation. Maybe, like, the bomb had just taken out the front of the car. Or maybe at any moment another train was going to ram into the back of ours. For all we knew, maybe a lot of things. So we were just a tad bit on edge.

Finally, after a long, awkward silence, Spot muttered, "So now what?"

And me not liking him, I answered, "Now I hope you die before I do, so I can at least enjoy the rest of _my_ life."

"Oh, you're _so_ funny," he answered, which was a lousy enough comeback that I smirked in the darkness. But it got better, because he kept talking. "You think we're gonna die?"

"Yeah, sure. We're gonna die."

"I don't _want_ to die." 

Spoiled prick. "Yeah, well, me neither," I answered out loud.

"I mean, I _can't_ die. God wouldn't let me die a virgin."

There was a long silence. And just at the moment I started laughing, he started yelling, "Shut up! Shut up! _Shut up!"_

But shutting up was not exactly my plan at that moment. "You're a _virgin?"_ I manage between guffaws. Now, for the sake of honesty, I'll admit that I was _also_ a virgin, but I wasn't going to go announcing that fact, even if my life was in danger. And I certainly wasn't going to admit that to _Spot_, of all people.

"Screw you," Spot snarled at me.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't want to be the one to..." I may actually have giggled, trying to find the right euphemism. "...Pop your cherry," I finally finished.

_"Shut up!"_

So apparently, Spot's comebacks aren't so good when he's stressed. And clearly, me making fun of him was not alleviating the stress any. So imagine my shock when, again, Spot continued talking.

"Anyway," he muttered, sounding sulky. "You'd _like_ that."

"Excuse me?" I demanded, turning to face him.

"You heard me." I could hear him smirking in the darkness. He must have realized he'd hit my sore spot. See... People at school tend to assume I'm gay. I mean, I don't _think_ I give off that kind of vibe, but I _am_ friends with Jack, and David, and Specs, and Dutchy, not to mention Mush and Blink, who I'm pretty sure are gay. And, you know, when all of your bets friends are also all of the gay guys in school, people tend to assume.

But I'm definitely not gay. Nope. Not me. Just a little sensitive, because people always think I am. Which is why it irritated me so much when Spot made that comment.

"I am _not gay,"_ I snapped. "And anyway, even if I was, _you're_ not my type."

"What, you prefer body builders? You like your men ripped and covered in tanning oil?" he suggested.

I had two options here. I could either deny that I liked men at all (which I don't) or I could insult him. Me being me, well...

"Yeah, sure. Better ripped and oily than skin and bones, all attitude but too damn shrimpy to back it up."

"Shrimpy?" he repeated. "You're calling _me_ a shrimp?"

"Yeah," I answered. "A shrimp who's all talk, and no muscle."

I suspect he narrowed his eyes, but I couldn't really see. But I could feel.

I certainly felt it when he tackled me.

My spine hit the edge of the seat, which hurt like a bitch, and I think my head snapped back. It didn't quite hit the floor, but I got whiplash something fierce, and his body was sprawled over mine, one arm wrapped around my ribcage, pinning my right arm to my side.

Now, I'm right handed, but that doesn't mean I can't use my left hand for anything. And since I was in a bit too awkward of a position to squirm out from under him, I did what anyone in my situation would have: balled my left fist, pulled back as far as I could manage, and punched the sucker in the face.

It was his turn to have his head snap back, and he slid off me on to the floor, landing on his back, and for some reason I just _snapped_ and all my frustration at this kid came out. I followed him on to the floor between the seats, straddling his chest with my knees, and punched him with my right hand. And I _am_ right handed, so this one did significantly more damage.

"You _bastard!"_ Spot snarled, once he'd managed to catch his breath, and he reached up to shove me off him, or so I thought. Actually, he reached up with one hand and wrapped it around my throat, pushing me upwards and off him, and pretty effectively blocking my windpipe.

It occurred to me that I may have misjudged Spot. The guy _was_ a shrimp, but as it turns out, he was able to back up his attitude after all. I toppled backwards into the wall of the car and hit my head, and Spot was suddenly back up on his knees, pinning me to the wall with one hand and punching me in the face with the other. I felt blood begin to trickle down my face and was pretty sure that was going to leave one hell of a bruise, but I was running on adrenaline so it didn't slow me down too much. I shoved his hand off of me and shoved, tried to get to my feet, but he grabbed my leg and I crashed again, falling on top of him, and then it's kind of hard to describe what happened, but we rolled around, trying to shove each other away, kneeing, elbowing, whatever we could do to try and get control and cause each other pain.

And somehow, we ended up wedged underneath a seat, him on top of me, not able to roll anymore. We were stuck.

I realized that the second before he did and tried to sort of shimmy to the side, as much to avoid his fist as anything else, but couldn't get very far; instead of blackening my eye it grazed the edge of my skull and hit the floor. He began swearing (we later discovered he'd sprained two fingers at that point) and tried to roll off of me, but couldn't. We were wedged there, bleeding, bruised, and _still_ not sure what the hell was going on that had caused the subway to stop and the lights to go out.

"This is all your fault," he finally snarled at me.

"You're the one who shoved us under the seats!" I accused.

"Because you punched me in the face!"

"Yeah, well you tackled me first!"

And then we had one of those long, silent moments, and he began to squirm on top of me, trying to get to the side or something, anything to get out. And all that did was make the two of us more stuck, not to mention more awkward. It was like getting a really, really terrible lap dance. From someone I hated. And was in no way attracted to.

He finally just lay still, his arms again pinning mine to my sides, the bottom of the seat cutting into his back. "This is your fault," he said again, no longer sounding quite as pissed about it, more just... Resigned and freaked out.

"You started it," I answered.

"So what if I did?"

We were quiet again and finally he mumbled, "We need to get out of this..."

"Yeah."

"Uh..."

"I'll... try and move to the left and you go to the right and maybe we'll..."

"Yeah."

So I began to move to the left. And so did he. We stopped and glared again, still nose to nose. _"My _right!" 

So we began moving again, the correct directions, and a long shimmy that I don't really care to think about later, he rolled off of me and landed next to me. Of course, now we were kind of squished in side by side under the seat, but not trapped, and being the normal guy I am, I got to my feet and retreated a few seats away from him. 

Somewhere around then, I noticed that it was actually starting to hurt where he'd hit me. My neck was sore from being shoved around like that, and I had a large, tender spot right at my nose, which was dripping blood still. "Asshole," I muttered, in a voice he'd normally never have heard. But the dark subway was so quiet that, well, he did.

"You were egging me on!" 

"You broke my nose!"

"You broke my hand!"

And somehow we were on our feet again, stomping towards each other, glaring—well, squinting, really. And neither of us was going to back down, so soon we were nose to nose... well, nose to chin... again. 

He shoved me, but not hard. I shoved back. We stood there and glared.

"So still think I'm all talk?"

"I still think you're a shrimp."

"I'm taller than _you."_

"Who's not?" I shrugged, and glowered. 

He snickered. "You're a real jerk."

"Look who's talking." 

"You've never been nice to me, ya know."

"Yeah, well, you aren't exactly a joy to live with." 

"So why don't you just stay at your dad's?"

"If I could, I would."

More silence, but calmer. I was pretty sure he wasn't going to tackle me again. And I should have kept my mouth shut. But... Well, I can't. So...

"So you're a virgin."

"So _fuck you."_

"What, you into boys or something?" I smirked. "You say that to me an _awful_ lot."

"You say it to me, too."

I started to reply, and then stopped. Spot hadn't answered my question. "Wait... _Are_ you?"

"So what if I am?" he hissed, leaning down and right in my face. I couldn't see more than a vague black outline, but I could feel him centimeters from him, feel his breath against my cheek.

"So nothing," I said, suddenly self conscious. "Some of my best friends are gay."

"Spoken like a true homophobe."

"I'm _not_ homophobic!"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not!" Which is true. I may not be gay, but, well, look at my best friends. Not a straight guy among them.

"Prove it." He shoved me a little bit again.

I shoved back. _"How?"_ I demanded.

And I really didn't expect what happened next. Spot reached out again and I figured it was to shove me, but instead he snaked an arm around my body, stepping in close again, and pressing his lips to mine.

I only opened my mouth to object. It certainly wasn't to let him slip me tongue. Which he did. And I had absolutely no idea where this came from, because... _gross._ It was Spot, for God's sake, and just _ew._

But, uh, I didn't shove him away from me. I don't know why that is. But by the point I even realized what was going on, his tongue was pretty far into my mouth, and I really don't know what I was supposed to do. Again, I started to resist, but what was I supposed to do? His grip around my body was pretty tight, and all me trying to talk did was somehow become me moving _my_ tongue and I certainly didn't _mean_ to kiss back, but...

Well, you know. Stuff happens sometimes whether you mean it to or not, so yes, I can admit it. For whatever reason, which I still don't know or understand, I kissed Spot back. Honestly, I think he was more surprised than I was, but after a moment, his hand traveled over to my side, resting there kind of lightly and gently. Spot didn't strike me as the type who did anything lightly or gently, but it felt kind of nice.

_In general,_ I mean. Not because it was Spot. _Gross._

Finally my better senses kicked in and I pulled away. Spot's hand dropped. We stepped apart, and I stumbled back a step, almost tripped, and sat quickly in one of the seats. Spot sat across the row from me, and we didn't talk for awhile.

It seemed like an hour before he said, "So now you know."

"Yeah."

"You try and make my life a living hell, and I'll beat the crap out of you. Again."

"You didn't beat the crap out of me."

"You keep telling yourself that." I could hear the smugness in his voice.

"So..." I said after awhile. "You want me, or what?"

"Excuse me?"

"You kissed me."

He snorted. "You _wish_ I wanted you."

"Then why'd you do it?"

"I dunno." I could hear that he was a little less comfortable now.

"You don't want to die a virgin?" I suggested snidely.

"Shut _up."_

So I did, and so did he. And then it was too quiet. "So... Uh... Does your dad know you're gay?" I asked.

"Uh, _no._ And he'd better not _mysteriously find out,_ either."

"What? I'm not gonna tell him."

"Really?"

"Please. I don't care enough to tell him."

"Yeah, sure." He sounded like he was smirking again. "So you telling me you didn't care at _all_ when I kissed you?"

"Nope."

"Nope?" he asked incredulously.

"Nope. Honestly, Conlon, you could kiss me all day and I wouldn't care."

I would like to point out, in my own defense, that I was not inviting him to kiss me all day. Nor did I expect him to do anything in response to that statement. And I most definitely did not expect him to stomp across to my seat, shove me back against it, and kiss me again.

So the whole him not wanting me thing? Yeah. That turned out to be a lie. Or so I can only assume by the fact that, once again, Spot Conlon's tongue was in my mouth, while he straddled my lap and tangled a hand in my hair, his body pressing mine against the seat.

There was absolutely no reason for me to be enjoying that. There was also absolutely no reason for me not to shove him off my lap or punch him in the face again.

But I didn't.

I kissed him back. Again.

He moved closer to me, which I didn't think was possible, but was less moving and more thrusting a little bit and I accidentally bit his tongue in an attempt to not groan. Spot responded by pulling my hair slightly, though it wasn't too hard, but he did jerk my head back and begin to suck at my exposed throat. 

That time I bit my own tongue. I was not, absolutely, under no circumstances, going to give him any indication that I enjoyed it. Because I didn't. Nope. Not even a little, tiny bit somewhere in the back of my mind. At all.

Yeah, I'm not fooling anyone. I don't like the guy and I'm not attracted to men, but god_damn,_ Spot knows his way around a body. And considering he's still a virgin, I don't know _how_ he learned things like this... Must have been lots of screwing around. I don't know; it's not like I was going to ask.

But I did wrap my arms around his shoulders and let him kiss me again. We tumbled over to the side, and he pressed me down into the seats, him lying over top of me with one leg still on the floor for balance because the seats were kind of thin. His arms finally released my body, but only so they could reach underneath my shirt, fingers trailing against my skin.

I shuddered slightly. "Spot!" I finally managed.

"Problem?" he answered, not moving off of me, leaning forward to breathe in my ear as he spoke.

"I—" I started, but he licked my ear, and that was just playing dirty. I shoved him and he lost his balance, slid slightly down my lap and moved so he was sitting next to me. "What... What are you _doing?"_ I demanded.

"If you don't know, I haven't been doing a very good job," he murmured in my ear.

"No, I know _that,_ I just... Why the hell are you..." I really couldn't think of a word to describe what he was doing to me. Sexing me? That just sounded bad. Hitting on me? No, he'd skipped hitting on—unless you count a fist fight as foreplay—and had gone straight to feeling me up. "Why are you doing _that_ to me?" I finally demanded.

He shrugged; I could feel it next to me. "You telling me you're straight?"

_"Yes."_

"I've met your friends—"

"And they are my _friends._ Not _me."_

"Right. But I've also seen you. You give off that _vibe."_

"I am not gay!" I yelled for the second time.

"Well, you didn't seem to mind screwing around with me," he pointed out.

"I did _so_ mind, you just... Startled me." I crossed my arms over my chest, sunk down in the seat and... Well, sulked, really.

"Uh huh." He sounded far too amused. "And besides... You said you thought we were gonna die."

"So?"

"So then this doesn't count. We're gonna _die._ So we might as well screw around and die in a good mood."

Now, normally, I'd have laughed that off. But consider how screwed up I was at that moment: for all I knew, we _were_ going to die; I was suffering from a headache and maybe even blood loss from the fight; and confused and thrown off my stride by the fact that Spot had just been kissing me and trying to get my shirt off. So I wasn't thinking quite so logically at that moment.

So I said, "Yeah... Yeah."

And that was all the permission he seemed to need or want, because he started nipping at my ear again, hand going to my chest, where he promptly resumed groping. I turned to face him and he kissed me, and the next thing I knew, we were lying across the seats again, and for the next... however long, I didn't look at my watch... the world was just me, Spot, and the chairs. A struggle not to fall off as things got more intense; a struggle not to freak out as things got more intense. Clothing was shed, and I'm not saying how much. Lips are made for kissing, but no one ever specified just _what_ they were made for kissing.

It turned out to be about four hours by the time were rescued from the back car, long after we'd stopped... What we'd been doing. I mean, neither of us was quite ready to go all the way, but we found lots of other ways to wear each other out.

We followed everyone out of the subway, called my mom, and spent a really boring, crappy afternoon and evening together trying to get home. We didn't speak more than about four words from the time we finished up to the time we got home... And we haven't said more than about another dozen since then. There's been no discussion of what happened, and certainly no more... _happenings._

I've done a lot of thinking, though. And came to the conclusion that, well... Screw what people think. _I_ know I'm straight. And I know that because I've screwed around with a boy and have no interest in doing it again. Fun, but not my cup of tea, you see? I'm not attracted to him. I like _girls._

And I still hate Spot. _That_ will never change. Even if he does look kind of good wandering around the apartment in boxers with his hair all messed up when he first gets up in the morning...

***

The bell rang and Racetrack was genuinely startled, looked up abruptly. The page of fabrications he'd been working on—probably the best fiction he'd ever written—wasn't quite done, but he didn't really care. He slapped it down on the teacher's desk, and dashed out to his locker before any of his friends could catch up with him. Spot was heavy on his mind and he didn't want to talk about it. At all.

Of course, David's locker was only two down from his, and within about thirty seconds David and Jack were leaning on the row of lockers, making out. He growled lightly and Mush skidded to a halt behind him. "Race! You look pissed, what's up?"

"Nothing," Race growled.

"Really? You okay?—hey Blink, wait up! See ya, Race." Mush gave his back a pat and skidded off down the hallway to catch up to Blink, a grin spreading across his face.

"Couples," Race muttered irritably, glaring down the hallway at them, only to have his glare broken up by yelling coming from the room he'd just left.

_"You wrote _what_?!"_

"The truth!"

Race groaned and began to open his locker, trying to block out Dutchy and Specs's yelling.

"The truth?!" Specs's voice was hitting an octave usually reserved for girls and guys who'd been castrated before puberty. "The _whole truth?!"_

"Yep!" Dutchy sounded amused.

_"Aaaaaaaaugh!"_

And with that, they came running down the hall, Dutchy significantly faster than Specs but pausing to let him _almost_ catch up and then dashing forward again. And down near the end of the hall, Dutchy finally allowed himself to be caught, laughing too hard to run, but Specs practically tripped into his arms and they ended up wrapped around each other, kissing between bouts of Specs yelling.

Race slammed his locker shut hard, and Jack and David both stared over at him. "You okay?" David asked.

"Why do people keep asking me that?" he yelled back, and David winced, only to have Jack wrap a protective arm around him. 

"It was just a question," David sulked.

"I hate everyone." He stomped off towards his next class. 

Jack and David exchanged looks. "You think he's coming to terms with being gay?" Jack asked.

"Nah," David said. "Denial."

"Hmm. You're probably right." Jack smiled. "Glad we don't go through that."

They watched as Race pushed past Specs and Dutchy, and could hear a loud, angry yell echo back through the hallway: _"I hate couples!"_

"Denial," they said together, and grinned, before starting off to their next class. 

*

So concludes the story. This chapter took me five months to write, and I'm not happy with the ending, but it'll suffice. Hopefully people enjoyed it anyway... This is why I try not to post WIPs unless I know how they're going to end. Because that would have made this much easier. Alas. Lesson learned.

Anyhoo. The end. Thanks to all the reviewers from the last chapter, and everyone who waited to read this:

Sam, Emme3, Seraph2, The Opal Star, Shadowlands, Omni, Kellyanne, Funkiechick, Stage, Quietviolence, Rumor, Shakeseegirl, Sita-chan, Nakaia Aidan-Sun, Gryffin Parker, Gothic Author, Thistle

And especially TSB. Happy birthday again. ^_^


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